| Cities
are the children of geography and history, each
with its own spirit. Some murmur quietly from
morning till night, others are in constant commotion.
Some awake early, others yawn until noon. Some
are presumptuous, others self-effacing. Some
glow in the light of history, their stories
continually retold over the centuries, others
lie in its shadow, even their names forgotten,
listening silently. The character of every city
is shaken through the sieve of history over
the centuries and millennia. Whenever I cross
the mountains and set foot in Kastamonu, a mood
of dignity enwraps me. I feel the breath of
a city which has seen much, experienced much,
and retained its self-respect through all. I
see it as a patient dervish wandering with a
clocktower on his back, perhaps because I encounter
the tomb of a great man or saint at every step.
Kastamonu remains Ottoman in aspect, graceful
and elegant.
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